Kanto — Saffron City.
"Man… I'm finally back."
Damian stepped out of the airport, looked up at the skyline, and let out a long breath. "Feels like I've been gone forever."
Caitlin and Gladion followed close behind.
This was the core group Damian planned to take into the next region—though he wasn't in any rush. He intended to actually rest for once now that he was back in Kanto.
"Saffron City…" Caitlin murmured beneath her sun hat, eyes roaming the streets. "So this is the economic heart of Kanto."
It was Caitlin's first time here.
Gladion was new to Kanto too, but he kept his usual stone-cold silence, trailing Damian like a bodyguard who didn't blink.
"Yeah," Damian said. "And Silph is right here."
The moment he said the name, his expression went hard to read.
Silph Co. wasn't just another big company—it was a global titan, the kind that stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Devon in Hoenn and Macro Cosmos in Galar. Their reach in manufacturing was absurd, and modern Poké Ball tech was basically stamped with their fingerprints.
And in Damian's mind, there was a simple conclusion.
A company like that should belong to Team Rocket.
But they weren't idiots. Not the way the "old stories" made them look. In those versions, Team Rocket tried to muscle Silph in one loud, sloppy move—and instantly painted a target on their backs big enough for the whole world to take shots at.
Damian wasn't going to repeat that.
No rush. Slow is clean.
"Come on," he said, checking his phone. "We're moving."
A car was already waiting. The driver took them deep into a quieter part of Saffron, where the three of them got out and slipped into an unremarkable entrance.
Saffron was Kanto's crown jewel. Of course Team Rocket had a base here.
It wasn't huge, though—because Saffron already had a certain "piece" on the board.
They went down.
And the moment Damian stepped into the underground base, he spotted the girl waiting for them.
Black hair. Pale, perfect features like a porcelain doll. A red dress cinched with a black sash. A waist so slender it almost looked unreal.
But what hit you first wasn't her beauty.
It was the cold.
The air around her felt like a warning sign: Don't get close.
And when her indifferent red eyes swept over you, it made your skin prickle.
Damian, naturally, walked straight into it like he didn't care.
"Yo, Sabrina," he said, grinning. "Long time no see. You get prettier every year."
Sabrina didn't react. Not even a twitch.
"Busy tonight?" Damian kept going, casual as ever. "I'll take you out. Dinner's on me."
"I appreciate your concern," Sabrina said flatly, "but I have work."
"Damn," Damian sighed like he'd been personally wronged. "Ice cold. You weren't like this a few years ago."
Sabrina's face didn't change—almost.
Almost.
A faint hint of pink flickered and vanished so fast you'd miss it if you blinked. Then she shot Damian a look sharp enough to cut.
Damian answered with the most innocent expression he could fake.
A few years back—three now—Damian had been just fourteen, newly brought into Team Rocket by Giovanni. Back then, he'd had that harmless, wide-eyed look that made people underestimate him.
Sabrina remembered it. She also remembered thinking, briefly, that the kid needed someone watching his back.
And then Damian had gone and proved he was trouble.
Not because anything "romantic" happened—nothing like that. It was worse in a different way: Damian had zero shame and even less respect for personal space.
He'd once shown up late at night during a base lockdown, claimed he couldn't sleep, and parked himself nearby like it was the most natural thing in the world—quiet, stubborn, and impossible to get rid of without making a scene.
It had been a stupid memory.
And Sabrina hated that it still made her ears warm.
Because after that, rumors started. Executive gossip, the kind that spread like wildfire and got uglier every time someone repeated it.
Sabrina didn't care about most rumors.
But Damian's?
Damian's "flower-scented news" followed him everywhere—girls, gifts, sweet talk, a new name every time you turned your head.
And every time Sabrina heard it, the chill around her got worse.
Damian. You absolute scumbag.
"The Boss is waiting," she said, voice clipped. "Follow me."
She took a slow breath, shot Damian one more fierce look—hidden, but loaded—and turned to lead them deeper in, hips swaying with controlled precision.
Caitlin drifted closer to Damian, eyes narrowed with curiosity. "Damian… she's—"
"Yeah," Damian said, still smiling. "Sabrina. One of the organization's top executives. People call her the Psychic Girl."
He glanced at Caitlin. "Same category as you—born with real psychic power."
Gladion frowned. "Sabrina is the Saffron Gym Leader, right?"
He sounded genuinely surprised. He'd done his homework before coming to Kanto. Saffron Gym was a major official Gym, and Sabrina's name carried weight. People talked about her strength like it was a legend.
If she weren't so unapproachable, Saffron Gym would've been one of the most popular in the region.
"Exactly," Damian said. "Psychic-types. And Caitlin—learn from her. You've got power, but control matters."
To be honest, Caitlin's raw output might already be higher.
But Sabrina's precision was on another level.
Damian had personally seen her do things that made even veterans go quiet—like pushing psychic energy so cleanly it forced an Abra across the line into evolution right in front of him.
And there were darker tricks too, the kind you didn't joke about.
Caitlin's eyes lit up. "Got it."
A kindred spirit. A real one.
They reached a door. Sabrina knocked twice, then opened it without waiting for permission.
Inside was a modest conference room.
A middle-aged man in a black trench coat and fedora sat like he owned the building—which he did. He sipped tea calmly, one hand stroking the head of a Persian crouched beside him.
Giovanni.
"Father," Damian said.
"You're back," Giovanni replied, setting his teacup down. A faint smile touched his face as he gestured at the seats. "Sit."
Damian sat—and immediately reached down to scratch the Persian under the chin.
The Persian's mouth twitched.
For half a second, it looked like it wanted to swat him away.
Then it caught Damian's gaze.
And the cat instantly switched to a blissed-out, obedient expression like its life depended on it.
It did.
Because the Persian still remembered the last time it had gotten impatient and smacked Damian's hand away.
That same afternoon, Damian had calmly brought in a doctor and started talking—very casually—about having the cat "fixed."
The Persian had never recovered from the psychological damage.
Is that something a normal human even threatens?